


When in Florence

by Fawnsummer



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Napoleon Solo Ships Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 12:55:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17529134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fawnsummer/pseuds/Fawnsummer
Summary: A/N: This is a stand alone fic I wrote as a gift for one of my dearest friends. I hope you enjoy x





	When in Florence

The sky burned, setting the _Arno_ aflame as the sun began its ascent beyond the _Ponte Vecchio_. Gaby stared at the sight, ignoring the tourists that had gathered to watch the sun rise. It was beautiful, but why anyone would want to get up at silly o’clock to see it was beyond her. 

She checked her watch. _Four minutes_.

Raising the 35mm camera that hung around her neck to eye level she assumed the pose of tourist, but as she lifted her gaze to the viewfinder her stomach roiled.

_Scheisse. I shouldn’t have had breakfast, it’s too damn early_ she murmured to herself, lowering the camera and scanning the crowd of people gathered on the piazza. 

_Three minutes._

Gaby breathed deeply, her eyelids fluttering closed as she waited out the sick feeling that threatened to overcome her. When she opened them again Illya Kuryakin was looking at her from the other side of the piazza. The tall Russian gave her the faintest tilt of his chin before lifting his own camera towards the view. She felt relief to see him there and _safe_. Safe in the knowledge he was close by if anything happened.

_Two minutes._

“You’re early” she murmured in fluent Italian, raising the camera to her face once more, the whirring of the shutter drowning out the sound of her blood roaring in her ears.

“Better early than late” De Luca replied in broken English. 

A criminal posing as a politician, Matteo De Luca was arguably the most powerful man in Italy. His influence penetrated the Swiss and Slovenian borders and most likely, beyond them. 

Gaby felt a bead of sweat slide from beneath her auburn wig, down her temple as she counted the number of De Luca henchmen spread throughout the crowd. They were easy to spot, if you know how to look for a gangster. She felt rather than saw Illya’s presence to her right; always perfectly on time and in position.

“Do you have the chip?” De Luca asked, looking at her through expensive sunglasses.

“If you have its counterpart, then yes.”

An unprecedented wave of nausea crashed into her as she lowered the camera. Gaby held her breath, willing it back down with every fibre of her being. She glanced at Illya who had moved further away, but close enough if she needed him. His brows were drawn together in a look of concern or warning? She couldn’t tell as she unceremoniously vomited up her breakfast on De Luca’s handmade, Italian leather shoes.

\-----

Gaby sighed, the porcelain felt against her clammy skin. The quiet murmur of voices floated in from beyond the bathroom door; the low Russian rumble of Illya and the familiar, American twang of Napoleon Solo – CIA agent and now partner with both Illya and Gaby under the codename U.N.C.L.E. Gaby cringed at the thought of how much trouble she would be in with them; being sick on an infamous crimelord wasn’t exactly part of the plan.

_I’ll just stay here_ she thought, hugging the toilet bowl tighter. She knew she’d have to tell them what was wrong with her, she just couldn’t decide which out of stomach flu and food poisoning sounded the most plausible.

The door opened softly. “Gaby, how are you feeling?” Solo strode in.

“I’ve been better.”

Solo put something on the cistern before hiking up his neatly ironed trousers to kneel beside her.

“Ginger tea, it should help with the nausea.” He pointed to the cup and saucer on the cistern. “I think now would be a good time to tell the Russian your little secret, don’t you?” he whispered close to her ear.

Gaby hid her surprise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She smoothed the front of the dress and attempted to stand. Solo slid a hand beneath her arm and lifted her to her feet with a strength that surprised her. “I’m going now to sort out our De Luca problem… on my own!” He hissed as Gaby tried to interrupt. I’m leaving Illya here with you so tell him now, while you have the chance.”

Solo closed the toilet seat, seating her upon it and handing her the tea. “I’m happy for you both, really.” He smiled, patting her lightly on the arm. “Just tell him.”

\-----

Gaby opened the door tentatively. The hotel room was plush and spacious, the lounge alone was probably three times the size of her apartment in Berlin. She found Illya at the dining room table, hunched over what looked like a tracking device. She stood on the threshold watching him for a few moments; the way the muscles in his broad shoulders flexed when he moved. He was a beautiful man. Beautiful and complicated. Since their first mission all those months ago in Rome, their relationship had gone from strength to strength. Constantly evolving, from the pure physical to something deep and unexplainable. Gaby didn’t know what to call it but what they had was delicate and she hoped that what she was about to tell him wouldn’t destroy it.

“Illya.” She said softly from the door. He turned abruptly, as though surprised to find he wasn’t alone.

“Gaby, you should be resting” he said, his blue eyes glimmering with something she hoped was the same thing she felt when she looked at him. 

“I’m fine.”

“I think you should be in bed” he said as he stood, his 6’5 frame making the room appear small. 

She followed him into the bedroom and watched him turn down the sheets of the bed with deft hands. Her thoughts wandered to what she knew those hands were capable of. The _KGB Kiss_ was one, deactivating an explosive device was another. But it was the soft touches she recalled best; the way his slender fingers skimmed over chess pieces and how they look wrapped around a glass and the feel of them grazing the curve of her jaw and tightly gripping her hips... 

She shivered.

“Get into bed Gaby, you’re shivering.” Illya stared at her pointedly. 

She sighed, pulling her dress over her head so she was just in an under-slip. Illya turned away at that which made her smile; he’d seen beneath her flimsy petticoats plenty of times. She pulled the covers up to her chin. They smelt like him. That alone inflamed her and the way he was looking at her was only making her burn.

“What do you need?” he asked, his tone suddenly formal. She thought she’d broken through that barrier with him, that solid line he seemed unable to cross.

_Was it always going to be like this?_

“You” she said. “Sit down Illya” she patted the space next to her on the bed. He perched on the edge reluctantly, his expression stony and warring.

“Hey” she said softly, reaching for him. “I’m fine, honestly.”

Illya sighed, his throat bobbing as he turned to her. “I saw it all happen in slow motion, and I thought…”

“I got out.” She stroked his arm, the cotton of his shirt soft beneath her palm. His blue gaze burned into her, drifting from her own chocolate brown lower. Trained intently on her lips.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

“I’m sure.”

He kissed her then, softly, testing. She opened to him, snaking her arms around his neck as she deepened the kiss, coaxing a moan from him as she teased him with her tongue. That flame in her belly relit as he lay her down, any sickness completely forgotten as her hands found the buttons of his shirt and popped them open one by one, pushing the shirt over his delicious, broad shoulders. Their breaths quickened, Illya moved from her lips to her throat, his lips so warm as he peppered kisses and Russian sentiments against her fevered skin. She could feel herself bowing to him, giving in completely.

“Wait, Illya! We need to talk!” She pushed him back lightly, the loss of contact a torment for them both. He looked a little stricken, his hair a perfect, tousled mess and his beautiful, sensual lips full and kiss-bitten. 

Their baby would be beautiful. She _had_ to tell him.

“Wait _solnyshko_ ” he said leaning over her. “Close your eyes.”

Gaby frowned.

“Don’t make me bend you over my knee” he warned.

“You know that doesn’t work on me _Red Peril_ ” she winked.

Illya snorted, a smile dimpling his cheek as he opened the drawer next to the bed.

“Are your eyes closed?”

“Yes” Gaby squeezed them tightly.

“Okay, open them.” Illya held two closed fists in front of her, just like he had in Rome. She tapped the one on the right which he opened, revealing an empty palm. Before Gaby could say anything, he reached towards her as though shifting a tendril of hair near her ear. When he brought his hand back, he was holding something.

“Illya?”

He chewed his bottom lip anxiously as he held the object out to her; a gorgeous, rose gold ring. It was so delicate. The thin band held a dainty, square cut diamond surrounded by a cluster of smaller ones.

“It belonged to my _babushka_ , my grandmother” he said, his accent pronounced.

Gaby stared at the ring he held out to her. She could barely hear him over the hammering of her own heart. But they weren’t together, not really. Not officially. Their relationship was a series of trysts fueled by fear and adrenaline, anxiety and exhilaration.

“Illya, are you...”

“Will you marry me, Gabriella?” he interrupted.

Gaby stared at him. She’d never seen his eyes so bright or hopeful. 

Warm tears tracked down her cheeks. Illya’s face fell at the sight of them. He let the ring fall onto the blanket between them. “I should leave you to rest.” His voice was thick with emotion.

No, Illya!” Gaby clasped his hands tightly, tugging him towards her. “Its not what you think.”

He stared at uncertainly. “Gaby…”

She moved one of his hands to rest on her belly, watching him carefully as she did so. They communicated so much without words, she was surprised she hadn’t thought to do this before. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the thin cotton of her under-slip.

Illya stared at the hand she held against her flat stomach. “ _Detka_ ” he whispered, bending his head so she couldn’t see the tears drip onto his lap.

She nodded yes, her tears returning in full force. “We’re having our own little _detka_.”

Taking her hand away from his, Gaby picked up the ring and slid it onto her finger. Illya let out a sob, scrunching her slip in his fist.

“I’ll marry you Illya.” Gaby said, moving to cradle his face in both hands. She lifted it to hers, smoothing his hot tears away with her thumbs.

“I’ll marry you.”


End file.
